At the Edge of Ireland (43 page)

I thought I might do it in sections, and indeed my preparatory strolls on the two islands were both enticing experiences. At the tip western end of the peninsula is the enchanting, almost abandoned isle of Dursey. Barely four miles by one and a half miles, it is described by Penelope Durell in her richly informative book,
Discover Dursey,
as a “long leviathan at rest, gazing out at the boundless ocean—up-tilted nose, smooth domed head, back formed by the curvaceous contours of five hills.”

The island may appear at first somewhat docile and even dull. But closer inspection reveals dramatic tide races in the narrow channel separating it from the mainland, rugged beachless cliffs rejecting easy access, and the stump of a lighthouse built in 1866 on Calf Rock and battered to pieces by a hurricane in 1881. This is indeed not a friendly place, as its history of hardship and horror would indicate, most notably in a massacre of all its three hundred inhabitants—supposedly members of the O'Sullivan clan—following the destruction of Dunboy Castle at Castletownbere in 1602.

The description of this event is spine-chilling in its ferocity:

Many of the people on Dursey Island at the time were refugees from the mainland, and they had fled in terror on the arrival of the forces. These were English forces under the command of Sir George Carew who was sent over to challenge local chiefs and even the forces of King Philip III of Spain who had sent supplies and men to aid the struggle for sovereignty against Queen Elizabeth I in 1601. Following a disastrous rout for the Irish, Dunboy Castle became an important but fragile garrison against the imminent attack. When disaster seemed apparent, many of the occupants fled to Dursey Island. Some had entered the small fort there, others ran away to hide or placed their hope in the sanctuary of the church. It was all to no avail, for after dismantling the fort, the soldiers set fire to all the houses as well as the church. They rounded up the people and shot down, hacked with swords or ran through with spears the now disarmed garrison and others—old men, women and children—whom they had driven into one heap. Some ran their swords up to the hilt through the babes and the mothers, who were carrying them on their breasts, others paraded before their comrades little children writhing and convulsing on their spears, and finally binding all the survivors, they threw them off the cliffs into the sea over jagged and sharp rocks showering on them shots and stones. In this way perished about 300 Catholics.

It's hard to juxtapose such hideously cruel events with the mellow moods presented to visitors today who take the time to explore Dursey. The Beara Way here on the island is a ten-mile loop on paths and boreens and is particularly pleasant in early fall when the gorse is in radiant golden flower across the bare treeless dome of the island. The climax experience, though, is not so much the walk itself, but access to the island by a creaking, rickety old cable car that crosses the tide-race abyss at the eastern extremity of the peninsula. The tiny metal cabin with a capacity of “six persons or a cow” seems alarmingly fragile and subject to a nauseating swinging and swaying as winds buffet it eighty feet or so above the roiling waves below. Occasionally dolphins doing flips and leaps in the turbulent channel can distract from the traumatic experience, but if windy heights are a worry, just stare straight ahead and promise yourself a tipple of the hard stuff when you finally arrive on the other side.

So why come? Well, certainly for the peace and silence, as only a handful of hardy residents call this place home. Also the evocative remnants of a monastery, fort, signal tower, and villages in addition to fine vistas of Bull Rock, Ireland's second largest gannetry, plus a breeding ground of storm petrels, fulmars, razorbills, guillemots, choughs, and even occasional peregrine falcons. But for those relishing the rich mysteries of Beara, Dursey's tales of strange boats, mystical lights, sea and animal apparitions, ghosts, and fairies are a far more tempting lure.

Anne and I visited Penny Durell to learn more about some of these oddities.

“So—how long have y'got?” was Penny's laughing response after we told her of our mission to learn from her more of Dursey's strange folkloric heritage.

“Well—we have your book, so we've got a bit of a head start,” said Anne.

Penny smiled. Or rather, she glowed. She was one of those intriguing individuals who seemed to float about buoyed on their own auras of happiness and contentment. Despite a recent and obviously still painful injury to her right hand, her smile exuded radiance and humor.

“Oh, well—if you've already forked out for the book, you're very welcome indeed. Cup o'tea? Homemade biscuits?” (This had obviously now become one of our “Beara rituals.” A substantial part of our diet seemed to consist of cups of tea and homemade confectionaries in other people's homes.)

“Yes to both,” I said. “We need restoration. It took quite a while to find your place. You're way out in the middle of nowhere…”

Penny giggled. “Well, I don't know about nowhere. It's certainly a bit isolated but…”

“And almost lost in your own massive windbreak trees and bushes.”

“Yes, and that. But, be honest now, isn't it worth it just for the view!”

She was right, of course. The all-embracing vista of the whole of Dursey Island, the foaming tidal rips of the narrow sound and the faint hazy outlines of the two now familiar Skelligs twelve or so miles out there in the Atlantic, was magnificent.

“I'd never get tired of that view,” Anne said, sighing.

Penny laughed, “No, you're right. It's very beautiful…when you can see it! But you know how our weather is here. We can go days—even weeks in winter—when you can barely see the trees at the end of our garden.”

“Yeah—we've had quite a few experiences with those local mists—more like the old London pea-soupers. But I was looking at your garden. Lots of stuff you're growing out there…”

“Well, I guess David, my loyal mate, and I are still maintaining some of the old counterculture spirit—y'know, self-sufficiency and all that. We grow a mass of tomatoes and other veggies, gorgeous apples and soft fruits and herbs galore. But when we first moved here some people thought we were a bit suspicious with all our herby stuff. Thought it might be something a little more…y'know, radical—but we invited them in to help themselves, and they eventually accepted us as harmless old ex-hippies still living the simple ‘good life.'”

Penny's “tea” was one of her own herbal brews and full of fruit flavors. Her homemade cookies were the kind that you find your fingers reaching out for despite edicts issued by the responsible part of your brain insisting that your quota has already been outrageously exceeded.

And Penny's stories were wonderful. We could fill chapters galore with her tales, but as her book
Discover Dursey
already does that, why be redundant. Suffice to say, we delighted in her historic vignettes and descriptions of pre-Christian superstitions or
piseogs.
Apparently the old feast of Bealtaine on the first day of May celebrating the coming of summer was the climactic event of the year here and spawned a wealth of customs, many revolving around cows, milk, and butter making. The animals were blessed by marking the sign of the cross over the byre doors, which would then also be tightly locked up in the morning to prevent mischievous fairies (as opposed to the “good little people”) from stealing precious milk and butter. May Day itself was particularly rigid—no butter could be churned on that day, no milk could be given away, as such a gift would drain “the luck of the farm.” And woe betide any cow giving birth to a calf, as they were both certain to die and bring doom upon the household.

And then, as summer moved on, there came the lighting of great bonfires on St. John's Eve to ward off disease and entice blessings, and the furious flurries of semi-erotic singing and dancing for the Lughnasa pagan harvest festival. But then things became a little more onerous with the strange antics of Halloween and All Souls' Day, the Celtic festival of Samhain when, in Penny's words, “only a thin veil separates the physical world from the realm of the spirits.”

She went on to tell us that, because of that terrible massacre on Dursey in 1602, residents would be “very wary of greeting any stranger encountered on the road at night because the ghosts of those tragic victims still wandered about, lost and hopeless, under cover of darkness.”

The local fishermen also had their own rigorous codes of superstitious conduct. Conversations on their boats out at sea were bound by strict taboos forbidding any discussion of pigs, foxes, or priests, which, they claimed, could jeopardize a decent catch. And if a fisherman should encounter a red-haired girl on his way down to his boat, he would be well advised to return home promptly and abandon fishing for that day.

“Oh,” added Penny, “and if he'd forgotten to put some coal in his trouser pocket before he left home, he'd also better go back and get some. And then he'd need to drag his wife or one of his kids down to the jetty to throw an old shoe after the boat—supposedly a very auspicious good luck gesture, although it must have cost them a small fortune in shoes. But if all these precautionary customs failed and there was a death at sea—a drowning—then there were more strict rules to be followed. For example, a close family member had to wear the victim's clothes at Mass for the three Sundays following the funeral service—and any woman pregnant with child could only attend the service, as she was barred from the actual burial. However, if she heard a bell-like ringing in her ear, she should pray for the deceased immediately. Oh—and if she wasn't married, she should watch out for houses where sparks from the peat fire flew out of the chimney, because money would be coming in for the fortunate occupants. And if one of them happened to be an eligible bachelor who picks up a hairpin in the road and then immediately meets a woman, she should be ready for a serious proposal of marriage. Of course, if there's a ginger cat crossing her path 'round about the same time, she should refuse the offer, as she would be constantly plagued by bad luck for the rest of her life.”

“So complex!” Anne laughed. “Surrounded by so many fears and fantasies…”

“Oh, that's just the start,” said Penny. “In the old days, little old Dursey was a hotbed of hauntings, fairy ships, fairies themselves, ghosts, huge fantasy galleons, strange lights, sea apparitions, hidden treasures, disembodied voices, and many other manifestations of overactive imaginations.”

“So, you're a believer in all these things?” I asked. “Have you experienced any apparitions yourself yet or found any hidden treasure?”

“Well—we certainly found treasure. This house for starters! But no, I can't really claim firsthand experiences, although when you talk to some of the old folk around here, they can make you almost believe…almost anything! But how about you, David—you've walked around the island. What were your feelings?”

“Well,” I said, “I've a hunch that, if I'd read your book and talked to you earlier, I'd have come away with a rather different take on Dursey. I mean—I certainly sensed a loneliness there…I think I only saw one other person…Who knows, maybe even that was an apparition…It was definitely an odd figure by the southern cliffs there, near where they threw the bodies over in tied-up bundles during that ghastly massacre. He or she was all hunched over and very dark in silhouette—even though the sun was way over by the Skelligs, behind me…I waved and the person turned but seemed to completely ignore me. So I carried on a short way toward the old village of Ballynacallagh and then I turned around and looked back…but he or she or it was gone. Whatever it was. And for the rest of the walk it was just me and the birds—hundreds of 'em, and…utter peace.”

“Ah, yes, the dulcet spirit of Dursey,” said Penny. “And for a tiny place, it has so much history—Viking invasions, the Normans, pirates, famines and evictions, emigrations, shipwrecks, collapsing lighthouses and storms like you can't imagine, and of course, all those—what did Anne call them—superstitious fears and fantasies. Well, it's amazing it can still offer the kind of peace and calm that can stay inside you and with you for days…weeks.”

“Yes, it can…it did. It still does!” I said.

Penny giggled again. “Ah, c'mon. You've got a bad case of the Dursey Dreamtime!”

“Is it very infectious?”

“Oh—totally!” Penny laughed.

“You're right,” said Anne. “I haven't even been there and I'm utterly enticed…I'm just not sure I want to go across in that cable car contraption.”

“Never a single accident,” insisted Penny.

“Oh, good,” said Anne.

“Yet,” said Penny.

 

A
SECOND LITTLE SIX-MILE
loop appendage of the Beara Way is on Bere Island itself, an appealing fifteen-minute ferry ride from Castletownbere. Renowned for its fine harbor, the island was the site of a major British naval base until 1938.

With a small population of around two hundred, a couple of pubs, and some basic accommodations, the place seems far removed from the quayside hullabaloo of Castletownbere, packed with huge trawlers and all its now-familiar bars and restaurants increasingly redolent with Polish and East European accents.

The island doesn't look very different from the mainland with its neatly walled fields, scattered farms, and beautiful patchwork quilt of greens and ochres featured in so many photographs of this part of Ireland. But it certainly reveals its own strong character in the remnants of fortifications, gun batteries, a Martello tower, and fine views of Dunboy Castle, where the O'Sullivan clan was massacred by the English general Carew after a siege of eleven days in 1602.

There are other island delights that make a hike here worthwhile—the late summer explosions of golden gorse flowers, the scarlet profusion of fuchsia hedgerows, a Bronze (2000–500
BC
) Age standing stone on a high point marking the exact center of the island, and the wonderful, wind-buffeted wildness of the moor itself with panoramic vistas in all directions.